


first thought, best thought

by finding



Category: High School Musical: The Musical: The Series (TV)
Genre: 1959 virginia, Dead Poets Society AU, M/M, ej pov, historical innacurracies, idiot savant ricky, kleptomaniac ej, nonlinear storytelling, period-typical homphobia, plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26364109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finding/pseuds/finding
Summary: At this point, Ricky’s foot has traveled a decent length up the inner part of EJ’s leg, brushing past his knee. EJ’s fingers spasm where they rest on his thigh, though his face doesn’t betray any emotion. He doesn’t want to give Ricky that satisfaction when he’d much rather give him other, more compelling things.“—and really, you should get a look at these girls that Charlie’s bringing, they are absolutely choice, Caswell,” the other student drones.Ricky stretches, bringing his arms above his head as he yawns, and when he slouches back down in his chair, his foot is pressed against the crotch of EJ’s pants. EJ’s blood hums in his veins, an electric and startling thing, like a match hovering over an oil slick. He feels alive in the same way that he does when he reads Ginsberg or his fingers close around something he knows he can pay for but won’t.or: EJ likes to take things that aren’t his. Among these: nickel candy, words from Whitman, and moments with Ricky. The Dead Poet’s Society au no one asked for.
Relationships: Ricky Bowen/E.J. Caswell
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	first thought, best thought

**Author's Note:**

> this is the product of a very rainy two weeks stuck in my room after being sent home from college to quarantine. it’s kind of my love child so i hope you enjoy! 
> 
> so much love to the rj discord squad (ichorborn, flow3rs, and TheKeyOfHappiness) for doing the absolute MOST for this fandom. queen shit. 
> 
> listen to the playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3FJmLZveSKyCSn3qL0sVIg?si=uiVHjrwwS4OFYeH-zR9bIA%22)
> 
> poems by rumi referenced in this work: a thirsty fish, a great wagon, kulliyat-e shams 2114

_a night full of talking that hurts,_

_my worst held-back secrets. everything_

_has to do with loving and not loving._

_this night will pass._

_then we have work to do._

_rumi, a night full of talking_

**a preface**

Boarding school, from EJ’s perspective, is an unavoidable fact of life. It exists in the same category of things such as: Dad’s senate campaign, the water polo team, and polite girls with pixie cuts from “strategic families."

Things that don’t exist, or at least not in any real way that EJ is allowed to know, include: poetry written after 1901, the bottom drawer of his dresser that’s full of things he’s stolen, and Ricky Bowen.

Out of those three quite unreal things, EJ thinks his parents will be the least angry to find out about the post-Victorian poetry. No, not angry— _disappointed. Let down. Ethan, you cannot let down the family, you know how much this election means to your father._

Poetry does not exist for kids like EJ because kids like EJ are actually _men_ , and men have certain responsibilities they must fulfill for the good of the family. Those responsibilities include making captain and courting girls from good families, not petty theft and dirty-mouthed boys from the neighborhood near the river.

EJ knows what he likes, he knows how he can get it, and he knows how much it will cost him – No, _really_ , he knows. He’s run the numbers before on it, did the cost-benefit analysis of _getting-my-fingers-in-his-mouth_ vs _pissing-off-dad-during-election-season_ , and let’s just say his preferred choice didn’t end up on top. His father has a particular affinity for aged liquor, military titles, and belts with tasteful silver buckles that EJ has learned to avoid quite aptly in 17 years. So, he stays away from Ricky Bowen.

**a fascist and a poet walk into a bar**

EJ’s plan to stay away lasts approximately 1.67 weeks into the first semester of seventh year. The universe apparently doesn’t give two _shits_ about EJ’s precarious situation, which is how he ends up partnered with Bowen in English. The universe must think itself to be very funny. EJ isn’t amused.

The Professor—EJ’s forgotten his name already to make room for more useful information, such as the six inches of exposed skin on Ricky’s arms from where his white sleeves are rolled up—slaps a book down on the desk. Ricky winces. EJ doesn’t because Caswell’s don’t do things like _wince._

“This isn’t on the approved reading list,” EJ says, his voice blank as he levels The Professor’s gaze.

“There is no approved reading list,” The Professor responds seriously, though he looks amused. “I did away with it. Too much Yeats.”

EJ blinks. “Yeats won a Noble Prize.”

“Yes, and Yeats was a fascist. All Big Men are actually Small. Now, get reading.” The Professor taps the book once and retreats to his desk to do things like rip pages out of _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_ and sympathize with the Soviets.

“He’s sort of scary,” Ricky says, slouching further into his chair.

EJ scoffs. “He’s sort of an asshole. And he has an ego problem.”

“And you don’t?” Ricky’s head lolls to the side as he looks at EJ.

“No. I have decorum. Write that one down, it’s 16 points in Scrabble,” EJ retorts, pulling the book towards him.

Ricky wrenches himself out from under the desk and moves to peer over EJ’s shoulder. “Rumi?”

“He’s a Persian poet.” EJ wrinkles his nose as he cracks open the red cover and starts flipping through the pages. He tries not to think of the proximity of Ricky’s face to his own. “12th or 13th century I believe.”

“Sure. That sounds right to me,” Ricky responds, nodding.

EJ glances at Ricky and shifts his shoulder to try to get him to move. “You’re useless.”

“Aw, c’mon Caswell, that’s not fair. I’m just here to look pretty. Your father set me up with a very nice scholarship, and all I have to do in return is give a few quotes about the generosity of Welton to _people like me_.” Ricky leans back in his seat and starts to pick at his fingernails. “You can’t expect too much from students of my _unfortunate circumstance._ ”

EJ rolls his eyes. “There’s a difference between being stupid and being lazy. And being poor and being lazy. You’re not actually incompetent, you just don’t give a shit.”

“Don’t even know why you care so much about your grades,” Ricky mumbles. “Daddy can just build a new library if they threaten to fail you.”

“Harvard cares about grades.”

“Harvard,” Ricky starts, “cares about maintaining establishment political power. Caswell’s are a good bet for them to take.”

It’s a low blow, and EJ gives him a hard stare. “Don’t throw around phrases like _establishment political power_. You don’t know a single fucking thing about American government. Name one U.S. president.”

“Easy. EJ Caswell,” Ricky says, a wide smile stretching across his face. EJ bites the inside of his cheek and tries to keep from smiling in return, but Ricky notices anyways. He pokes one finger at the dimple forming in EJ’s cheek, and EJ swats Ricky’s hand away. “Hey, I almost broke you. Goddamn, I’m getting better every day.”

**the beginning**

Let’s start at the beginning. EJ is doing night rounds because he’s the only 5th year to make prefect.

So, let’s say EJ is doing night rounds, and it’s the day before the winter holiday. EJ’s trying not to think about being home for Christmas: the radio humming, candles lit, a ten-course meal laid out on a long walnut table, his older sister back from the Women’s College in New York, mom wearing an apron even though she’s never touched a single thing in the kitchen (mom with the mark of a Championship ring hollowed into her cheek that they all pretend they don’t notice), dad at the head of the table (dad in a suit that’s black as midnight and a Championship ring on his middle finger).

EJ’s not fond of Christmas, but then again, maybe he just isn’t fond of _home_.

Anyways. The beginning. EJ is doing rounds of the upperclassmen boy’s dormitories. It’s dark and it’s snowing outside and he’s trying not to think about Christmas. There’s an ache crawling through his jaw, burrowing into the hinge right below his ear. It’s a migraine, he thinks, or maybe exhaustion. He could write a poem about it, maybe, but he knows he won’t.

EJ turns the corner, trailing his fingertips along the stone. He likes being up past midnight when everyone else is asleep. Or at least they’re _supposed_ to be asleep, though he realizes that there’s very obviously someone defying that rule when he enters the new hallway. He sees someone slumped against the wall—no, _two_ someones. Two someones out past midnight. Two someones moving hurriedly, breath coming in short gasps.

EJ sighs. He doesn’t really mind if boys fool around in the hallways or empty classrooms. He _does mind,_ however, if they’re doing it during his rounds, thus making it EJ’s problem. EJ doesn’t like it when other people’s problems bleed into his life. He finds it tiresome.

He waits a second before coughing loudly into his fist. Two heads swing up and stare in his direction.

“Hi. Hello,” EJ says, giving a little wave. “Please debauch each other somewhere else. Preferably not outside the laundry room after hours. I really don’t care.”

One of the boys quickly starts buttoning up his shirt and brushes his hair back. “Are you going to report us?” he asks in a small tone.

“That’s a lot of paperwork on my end, and I have a migraine. So, no. Get out of here.” EJ leans against the corner, and the one boy brushes past him and disappears into the hall. The other one stays against the wall, one foot propped up as he lazily does up his belt. EJ can barely see his face in the dim yellow glow of the lamp, but he recognizes that hair, that posture. The boy was, after all, shaking his father’s hand a few months ago at the opening ceremony to accept a brand-new scholarship set up by the Caswell Family Legacy Foundation.

“Bad impression to make in your first semester, charity case,” EJ says into the dark hall, his voice echoing quietly.

“Don’t really care about impressions,” Bowen responds, running a hand through his hair.

EJ folds his arms. “What do you care about?”

Bowen hums thoughtfully. “Whitman. Pissing off the prefects. Getting my dick sucked. A few other things, but those ones really stand out. Walt Whitman was a queer, did you know that?”

“Why would I know that?” EJ asks in a level tone.

“I don’t know,” Bowen says, kicking off the wall and taking a few strides towards EJ. “You’re handsome. And rich. And boring. You must be unhappy, right? You _contradict yourself_. You _contain multitudes._ All that jazz.”

“Funny,” EJ says drily. Something about this kid makes him nervous, unmoored, like he’s walked into class and realized he’s forgotten to study for the exam. It’s starting to piss him off. “Are you planning on going back to your dorm anytime soon or are you spending the night here? Just so, you know, I can finish my rounds before the sun comes up.”

“You offering to give me a reason to stay?” Bowen says, cocking his head to the side and studying EJ’s face. His gaze sweeps over EJ’s body once, twice, before snapping back up to meet his eyes. He looks like he’s about to laugh, like he’s playing a joke on him. EJ’s blood burns in his veins like hot water flooding the tap.

“Careful, Bowen,” EJ warns as he steps into his space. “Don’t wanna make a mess you can’t clean up.”

“I can take care of myself,” Bowen says, reaching one hand up slowly. EJ catches it in his own before it can reach his arm. Bowen snorts. “Jumpy. Calm down, Caswell, you’ve just got something on your jacket.”

EJ tries to pull his hand from Bowen’s, but the other boy twists his grip so his fingers are wrapped around EJ’s wrist. “ _Soft and tender, smooth and white, Formed for winning and delight, Nature has no lovelier sight— A woman's hand_ ,” Bowen recites, leaning forward. EJ can smell the scent of his soap, sweat on his skin, the burnt smell of a too-hot iron on his pressed white shirt.

“Are you done?” EJ asks, locking his gaze on Bowen’s and steadying his voice.

The side of Bowen’s mouth quirks up into a small smile. Victorious. Joking. “Sure. Are you?”

“Sure,” EJ answers. He doesn’t smile back. “Are you going to let go of me now?”

He laughs and releases EJ’s wrist. “Wouldn’t want to leave a mark on our golden boy.”

EJ folds his arms across his chest. He doesn’t think about Bowen leaving a mark on him, certainly not with his _teeth_ or something uncouth like that. “Have a safe walk back,” he says, and when Bowen still doesn’t move after a moment, he adds for emphasis, “ _Goodnight._ ”

“It _is_ a good night,” Bowen answers cheerfully. “See you around!”

“I certainly hope not,” EJ says to his retreating form. Bowen throws up a middle finger, and EJ watches until he disappears into the stairwell.

 _Well,_ EJ thinks, _this is not going to end well._

**an invitation**

“Do you think,” Ricky starts, “that Rumi was a hedonist?”

EJ looks up from the books spread out in front of him to peer at Ricky who is somehow spread across three chairs and using a fourth as his desk, ignoring the very expensive table that separates them. “No. He was a dedicated Muslim.”

Ricky flips through the book The Professor gave them and skims the pages. “Some of these verses are a little… impious. Hey, how many points is that worth in Scrabble?”

“11. Did you pick a poem yet?” EJ puts his pencil down and stretches his arms above his head. Ricky glances up and follows the movement. He looks hungry, and EJ pretends not to notice.

“ _A fire has risen above my tombstone hat. I don’t want learning, or dignity, or respectability. I want this music and this dawn and the warmth of your cheek against mine_ ,” Ricky reads quietly, glancing up again at him before flipping to another page. “Are you taking notes on this? _Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there._ ”

EJ lets out an uneven breath against his will. There’s something about this moment that aches, that bleeds into his bones. Ricky, there, lounging on a chair, the pressed lines of his uniform pants stretching out, his ankles exposed (where did his shoes go?), a baggy grey sweatshirt on the frame of his shoulders, thin fingers wrapped around the spine of a red book, his thumb brought to his lip in contemplation. EJ reads Ricky as Ricky reads the words on the page; one poem reading another.

“ _I would love to kiss you. The price of kissing is your life. Now my loving is running toward my life shouting, what a bargain, let’s buy it_. EJ?”

EJ blinks. “Yeah?”

Ricky brings the book closer to his face. “I don’t think this part is translated correctly. Can you look at this line—” he starts, leaning across the small table and placing the book in front of EJ. EJ looks down at the text and finds where Ricky is pointing.

“I don’t really know much about the original language,” EJ says, moving Ricky’s finger away so he can see the rest of the line. “We might have to ask The Professor.”

“Well, we’re fucked then,” Ricky resolves, sitting down again. “I refuse to talk to him. He gives me the chills. Actually, this entire goddamn school gives me the chills.”

“You’re welcome to leave anytime,” EJ offers, scribbling a note in the margin about a translation he needs to double-check later.

“Then who would read you romantic Persian poetry and make your life miserable?” Ricky asks.

EJ rolls his eyes. “I’m sure I could figure something out.” This is mostly a lie: he thinks that if he knew he’d never get to hear Ricky recite poetry ever again, he might just quit school and become a monk. Then again, his mom would probably be disappointed if he took a vow of abstinence and didn’t get a start on producing three perfect Caswell grandchildren before he turns 30. EJ tries his best not to disappoint mom because that means disappointing dad, and disappointing dad means someone gets hurt.

“So,” Ricky says, changing the topic. “We need to get started on memorizing this. Are you any good at recitations?”

“Yes,” EJ answers. “I’m good at everything.”

Ricky quirks up an eyebrow. “Oh?”

EJ shrugs. “It’s hard not to when you’re born with genes like mine.”

“Being good at everything though…” Ricky replies with a frown as he leans forward with his elbows on the table, “doesn’t that make you sort of bad at everything, in a way? If there are no varying degrees of ability, words denoting distinction lose their meaning.”

EJ huffs and puts his pencil down. “I think I like you better when you’re playing stupid.”

Ricky’s eyes twinkle. “Oh? You like me?”

“Only on Sundays,” EJ drawls.

Ricky smirks and he opens his mouth to speak before they’re interrupted by one of their classmates approaching the table where they’re spread out all their books

“Caswell!” he says, bringing a hand down hard on EJ’s shoulder. “I’ve been trying to find you for ages, this fucking library’s a maze. Some of the boys are planning to go dancing tonight, are you in? Charlie says he has some girls lined up from St. Mary’s, but they’ll only come if you’re there.” His eyes flick over to Ricky. “Your friend can come too.”

“He’s not my friend—” EJ replies right as Ricky says, “Sounds fantastic.” EJ gives Ricky a hard stare. Ricky winks at him.

“We’ll be there! Send us the time and place, Johnny-boy,” Ricky declares. EJ glares harder.

The boy keeps talking—something inane about a girl named Christine or lacrosse or arithmetic—EJ isn’t really paying attention. It’s actually quite _impossible_ for EJ to pay attention because Ricky’s decided that now is a good time to stretch his legs out and place the line of his calf against EJ’s. When EJ stares at him, Ricky just shrugs and innocently mouths _What?_

“—and so I said to Whitmore that there’s absolutely no _way_ his father got him a seat at Saratoga because, well, you know how impossible that would be this late in the year. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Sure,” EJ nods, but his eyes are locked onto Ricky’s. The other boy has shifted so his ankle (still bare because Ricky likely finds the idea of being confined by socks and shoes as particularly offensive) brushes against the material of EJ’s pants. EJ narrows his eyes. Ricky tips his head back, just a hair, the picture of leisure.

“Of course, Whitmore fancies himself to be the next Eisenhower or something equally moronic. Really, we ought to do something to knock some sense into him, don’t you think?” EJ hums in reply, though it seems the other student isn’t really even talking _to_ EJ so much anymore as he’s performing for a general audience. “But anyway, I don’t think he’ll be willing to show his face tonight, not if you’re coming—” 

At this point, Ricky’s foot has traveled a decent length up the inner part of EJ’s leg, brushing past his knee. EJ’s fingers spasm where they rest on his thigh, though his face doesn’t betray any emotion. He doesn’t want to give Ricky that satisfaction when he’d much rather give him other, more compelling things.

“—and really, you should get a look at these girls that Charlie’s bringing, they are absolutely _choice_ , Caswell—”

Ricky stretches, bringing his arms above his head as he yawns, and when he slouches back down in his chair, his foot is pressed against the crotch of EJ’s pants. EJ’s blood hums in his veins, an electric and startling thing, like a match hovering over an oil slick. He feels alive in the same way that he does when he reads Ginsberg or his fingers close around something he knows he can pay for but won’t.

“—so I said to him, ‘Look right here, Stuart, I’m not going to play any game’s with you buddy,’ and he has the audacity to—”

“John,” EJ says, not breaking eye contact with Ricky, “or Allen or whatever the hell they call you, get the fuck out of here. Now.”

John or Allen or Nameless Student #2 in the motion picture of EJ’s life laughs hesitantly. “Sure, buddy. You’re still gonna be there tonight, though—”

EJ turns his head and flashes his teeth at the boy in a mean imitation of a smile. “Get out.”

The boy laughs again and brings a hand up to scratch the back of his head. He looks like he’s going to speak again before he abruptly turns and scurries out of the library. Ricky whistles.

“You’ve got a mean streak, Caswell,” he observes.

EJ grins. “I’ve got a mean _everything_ , Bowen.” He leans back into his chair and moves his hand so his fingers ghost across Ricky’s ankle. “What are you doing?”

“Translating Persian poetry,” Ricky says coyly. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out who gave you a death wish,” EJ remarks.

“Why? So you can thank them?”

EJ snorts. “Among other things.” Neither of them speaks for a moment, both locked in the in-between-space of admonition and silence. EJ’s long fingers wrap loosely around Ricky’s ankle, and he thinks he might see Ricky shiver (but maybe the lighting is just playing tricks on him). EJ sits there and he _wants_ : a different name, a different family, a time and place in the world for people like him, an evening by the river with a red book of poems and a bottle of Dewar’s White Label and a boy with brown hair and his head in EJ’s lap—impossible things, absurd things, things that even he can’t steal. 

Finally, Ricky breaks the silence. “EJ—” he starts before EJ cuts him off. He doesn’t want to hear what Ricky says after his name because he knows the words will cut into the love-lines of his palms and stay there forever, blood-red and pulsing.

“Are you going tonight, then?” EJ asks, pushing his chair back and standing up.

Ricky shutters his face, rearranging the features to hide whatever ounce of vulnerability was exposed, and huffs quietly before nodding. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

**the beginning (draft two)**

Let’s start at the beginning. Not the beginning with Ricky—that’s already been covered, more or less. A different beginning, one before firth year prefectures and a Christmas holiday.

Wait, no—a different Christmas holiday. EJ is seven. No—eight, though it doesn’t matter much at this rate. EJ is younger than he is now, it’s nearly Christmas, and he’s clutching his mother’s hand as she drags him down 59th to Bloomingdale’s.

EJ is seven or eight and he’s clutching his mother’s hand and wondering why on earth he has to go to Bloomingdales when his sister gets to go ice skating with the rest of the girls from her finishing school. All he knows, really, is that he’s cold and the sky is the same shade of grey as their parlor when it’s filled with the smoke of father’s cigars and that there are five dime-sized bruises on his mother’s neck that keep appearing when her scarf slips down.

They’re on the fifth floor looking at perfumes when EJ tells his mom that he needs to use the bathroom. She shushes him and tells him to wait, then continues talking with the salesgirl. EJ does wait, for about a minute, before he grabs on the sleeve of her coat and asks again. She resolutely ignores him. EJ tugs at her sleeve, and then finally, when she doesn’t answer, grabs the end of her scarf and pulls. It unravels, most of it falling to the floor beside the end that is enclosed in his small fist.

His mother’s hand comes up to cover the marks on her neck but not before the salesgirl catches sight of them. Her eyes widen before she politely looks away.

“I apologize,” his mom says evenly. “My son has apparently forgotten how to behave.”

“It’s no problem, ma’am.” The salesgirl smiles tightly. “Your credit card?”

EJ’s mom, realizing she’ll have to lower her hand to open her purse, turns away slightly and starts searching for her wallet. EJ doesn’t move, the scarf still held tightly in his fist. His mom, apparently, can’t find her credit card, and her carefully composed air slips away inch by inch.

“I must have left my wallet in the cab, I’m very sorry—” she starts, her breath short.

“It’s fine, ma’am. We can put it on the tab. The bill is under Marcus Caswell, no?” the salesgirl asks. His mother winces at the name, just for a second, but it’s enough that the girl notices. EJ feels immobilized, frozen at the scene unfurling before him. His mom looks like she might cry but his mom _never_ cries, not in public. _It’s not becoming, Ethan_.

“There’s no need. We’ll come back another time,” his mom says, voice tight.

The salesgirl frowns and then looks down. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “Ma’am, are you in need of help in any way?”

His mom huffs. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

They begin to go back and forth in controlled tones, and EJ watches, entranced. He’s not sure he understands what’s happening, but he does know that mother wants the perfume and she doesn’t have any money. He also knows that he wants his mother to stop arguing with the other lady and he doesn’t like that she might cry and he wants to make it better.

EJ is seven or eight and it’s nearly Christmas and he wants to make it better, so he takes a small step away from his mom—she’s still arguing with the salesgirl and doesn’t notice. He’s tall for a kid, so he’s nearly eye-level with the counter. He reaches up, very quickly and very quietly, and swipes the square amber glass bottle off the shelf before anyone notices (not like they’re paying attention to him anyway. EJ realizes a lot later in life that he’s supposed to be the kind of handsome that your eyes slide over, easy, faultless, a biological response that tells you that this person is better than you.)

Anyways, EJ takes the bottle because he recognizes it as the same one his mom puts on when she lets him watch her do her makeup. He slips it into the silk-lined pocket of his thick wool coat and then returns to his mother’s side as if nothing happened. Except it’s not like nothing happened because the second he takes the perfume, he’s filled with this inexplicable rush of something he can’t explain. The whole world goes silent—except it doesn’t, really, because he can see his mom’s lips still moving—but inside his head goes silent at least. It feels good, feels safe, like no one can touch him, like no one can put their fingers on his throat.

Later, when he gives it to his mom, she’s very quiet for a long while. She wraps him up in a hug and tells him to never do it again. He listens and tries, really he does, but it happens again right after New Years, and then again and again and again.

And that’s how EJ becomes a thief. Just one more secret among others.

**a girl in a magazine, a boy in a mirror, and a wise old owl in an oak**

Dancing, for most Welton boys, is the only thing worth living for during the long autumn semester confined at the Academy. For EJ, it’s both unbearable and a necessary evil. Except for when Ricky Bowen is involved.

Ricky Bowen, unlike most Welton boys, does not dance. EJ has to go to these functions out of pure social necessity, but Ricky has nothing to gain from it. Except for tonight, apparently, because he knows EJ Caswell is going to be there which means he can plot a way to ruin EJ’s life outside of school. That’s what EJ presumes, anyways.

Ricky’s outside lounging against the brick wall and smoking a cigarette when he arrives. Ricky’s wearing worn jeans and a letterman jacket, though EJ has absolutely no idea where it could have come from. EJ’s pretty sure Welton has a policy against letterman jackets.

“You’re early,” EJ calls out as he walks up.

Ricky talks a drag of his cigarette. “Didn’t want to miss the man of the hour.”

EJ leans against the wall, a safe distance away from Ricky. “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

Ricky raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh? You thought I meant you?” He offers EJ his cigarette, and EJ only hesitates for a second before taking it. “These things are boring. I hoped you could use that Caswell charm and get us some drinks.”

“This is a diner. The most alcoholic drink they serve is a Shirley Temple,” EJ says, breathing in.

Ricky shakes his head and smirks. “You just know the wrong people.”

“I know everyone,” EJ defends.

“No,” Ricky replies, taking the cigarette back from EJ. “Everyone knows you. There’s a difference.”

“Game, set, match,” EJ says drily before pushing off the wall. “Inside?”

Ricky lets out a dramatic sigh and flicks his cigarette to the ground. “If we must.” He sweeps out one arm and gestures for EJ to go first. EJ ducks his head and pushes through the door, steeling himself for what will, inevitably, be a very long evening.

Welton is located in a very small and very old town in Virginia’s rich country (though from what EJ’s seen, all of Virginia is rich country). Consequently, the single diner serves as a de facto hybrid of an ice-cream shop, arcade, and juke joint. On Fridays, it’s primarily the latter. Kids push all the tables to the side to create an open swath of checkered floor, and boys hang over the jukebox with pockets full of pennies to give to pretty girls with bright eyes and absolutely no intentions of doing anything more than dancing. EJ finds it vulgar to carry coins on one’s person. Real men use checks and weighted promises to buy things.

“This place,” Ricky says, eyes sweeping across the room, “is a shithole.”

He’s not necessarily wrong—the tables are greasy and the blue and red glow from the fluorescents casts an unnerving pallor across the place. EJ hates it in the indiscriminate way that he always hates all places he knows he doesn’t fit in. EJ was made for debutante balls and horse races and inaugural dinners. While the other Welton boys with their hair slicked back and sleeves rolled up can make themselves look at home, EJ can’t. There’s something different in his bones, something old and gilded and poisonous that separates him from them.

Ricky looks out of place, too, but only because his total detachment from the entire scene is so obvious on his face. EJ and Ricky wear superiority in different colors. It’s hard for EJ not to think of them as _EJandRicky_ against everyone else. 

A few of the other 7th year boys approach them, chattering away and preening like fucking birds. They start to pull EJ towards the counter, and he throws a look at Ricky who just smiles and waves him off.

“Caswell, looking handsome as always!” one of them says, slapping EJ on the back. He gives them a tight smile in return and wraps his fingers around a glass bottle that someone shoves into his hand. “Have you meet our dear-friend Carol?”

EJ nods politely at the girl. She’s pretty, almost in a sort of remarkable way, with an easy smile and loose blonde hair. Her posture says _look but don’t touch._ It’s alright—EJ doesn’t want to touch, anyways.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” he answers. EJ doesn’t really want to do this right now, but it’s not really his choice, is it?

They speak for a few songs, and EJ finds he’d quite like her if he was interested in that sort of thing. She’s smart and has a funny little laugh and they trade horror stories about professors. Eventually, she jumps up onto one of the stools and starts spinning side-to-side. Her feet brush against his calves and she leans forward, one finger twisted through a lock of her hair, and she’s sort of perfect at that moment, like a girl out of a magazine.

It’s a pity, though, that EJ misses it because he’s too busy looking at Ricky. It’s not his fault, really, when Ricky looks like that. He’s lost the letterman jacket somewhere and is now sporting only a white wife-beater and a chatty girl with short black hair on his arm. They’re probably talking about things like Kierkegaard and post-colonialism. EJ wants to hate them. Mostly he just wants to be them. 

EJ watches as Ricky tosses a coin to the girl. She winks at him and slips it into the jukebox, her face an inch from the glass to search for a song. Ricky puts one arm up on the top of it and crowds behind her to look as well. Finally, a new song starts playing, something slow and sweet that tastes like honey in his mouth.

Ricky offers one hand to the girl, a wicked smile on his face, and she tips her head back in a laugh before taking it. He spins her out a few feet onto the dance floor before bringing one hand to her waist. She puts one hand on his shoulder, the other grasped in his, and they drift slowly together.

“Do you want to dance?” EJ asks, turning to Carol suddenly.

She blinks and then smiles before accepting his offer. He guides her out onto the floor and assumes the same posture as Ricky. He’s a good bit taller than her, but she hesitantly lays a head on his shoulder anyway. Her hand is small in his, the curve of her waist soft under his fingers. He looks down at the gentle line of her nose, the high arches of her cheekbones, her sugar-spun hair and cherry lips.

When he looks back up, Ricky has his lips on the girl’s neck. EJ tries and fails (and tries and fails) to look away but he can’t, something anchoring his gaze (not _something_ —he knows what this is). Then Ricky’s eyes snap open and lock onto EJ’s. They watch each other in the red glow of the fluorescents, music aching through the jukebox, Ricky’s teeth on a girl’s neck and EJ’s hand on a girl’s waist but really they’re touching each other in some mistake of the laws of nature. EJ knows that he’s really touching Ricky because when he tightens his hand on Carol’s waist, Ricky is the one who smiles. When Ricky brushes his lips across the girl’s neck, pulls her skin between his teeth, it’s EJ who feels it like the burn of an iron on his skin.

So they dance. And they watch each other. And it feels like a precipice, a confession, a bone bent so far that it has to snap. And EJ could probably write a thousand poems about it on the surface of Ricky’s skin.

The song ends, and EJ feels the mechanic rotations of the jukebox in his body—a click, one-two-three-four, of carved metal parts falling into place inside of him as the next song starts.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pushing Carol away. She says something, but he doesn’t hear her reply because he’s already three strides away and nearly to the bathroom.

He slams through the door and braces his hands on the porcelain edge of the sink. His hands are shaking, fingers aching for something to take, a cigarette or a bottle of perfume or a fistful of brown hair. EJ doesn’t look at himself in the mirror, just breathes ten times, then uncurls his aching fingers and turns on the tap. He washes his hands methodically, tries to repeat a nursery rhyme in his head.

The door opens again, and EJ wills himself not to turn around.

“EJ,” Ricky says. “Hey, EJ, look at me.”

EJ doesn’t look. EJ doesn’t do anything. He just keeps washing his hands, repeating to himself _A wise old owl lives in an oak, the more he saw the less he spoke, the less he spoke the more he heard—_

“What the hell’s got you so fucking afraid?” Ricky asks, his voice raw. “What the fuck are you so scared of?”

EJ lets out a laugh, half-choked. “Everything.” He brings his chin up, stares at Ricky’s reflection in the cloudy mirror. “I’m scared of fucking everything.”

Ricky stares back, a phantom in the glass that EJ almost convinces himself isn’t real. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” EJ says slowly. “I’m afraid _for_ you.”

Ricky shakes his head. “What the hell does that mean?”

EJ chooses his words like he’s threading pearls onto a string. Carefully. “People around me get hurt. People get hurt because of people like me.”

“People like you?”

EJ tries to relax his jaw, tries not to grit out the words because it’s not Ricky he’s mad at, not really. “People like us.”

Ricky’s quiet, and then, “Right.”

“Yes.”

“So we understand each other, then?” Ricky’s voice is closer. Ricky’s closer too, his body hovering right behind EJ’s.

EJ doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know if they do. Ricky might understand him, but EJ’s quite certain that he doesn’t understand himself.

“What do you want?” Ricky asks, his chest flush against EJ’s back. His hands come around to rest on top of EJ’s, the lines of their fingers slotting together. EJ feels quiet, warm, wants to melt back into Ricky and the darkness of this room and the soft music playing outside the room.

“Everything,” he replies, but he doesn’t mean it in the sense of money and power and centerfold girls in skyrise apartments on the Upper East Side. _Everything_ is _this music and this dawn and the warmth of your cheek against mine_ , a new name, a new family, a book and a bottle and a boy.

“I can’t give you that,” Ricky whispers against his shoulder.

“Yes, you can,” EJ says, turning around to face Ricky. He looks down at Ricky, the gentle line of his nose, the arches of his cheekbones, brown hair and cupid’s-bow lips. “I’m going to kiss you now."

Ricky nods, and then he smiles, and then EJ’s hands are on his face, a thumb brushing his cheek. Ricky turns his face into EJ’s palm, opens his mouth against the skin and exhales. A shiver runs through him—a shiver and a freight train and a lightning strike. 

Ricky looks up at him, and EJ wants to say—EJ wants to tell him—

The door bangs open, two or three guys streaming in, laughing and pushing each other around. They quiet down when they see EJ and Ricky, though they’re now a safe 1000 feet from each other, both pressed to opposite sides of the room.

“All right, boys?” one of them asks, a hint of derision in his voice.

“Fine, thanks,” EJ says, nodding. He pushes forward and claps a hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Tell you dad hello for me. My father said he’s due for a promotion in a year if he keeps those numbers up.”

“Right, Caswell,” he replies, his jaw set. “Will-do.”

EJ smiles, and he’s a president and a prince and an atom-bomb with all its teeth bared. The boys move and let him through because EJ Caswell’s the kind of person you make room for. 

He doesn’t look back to see if Ricky’s following him. EJ’s taken one person down with him already. He’s not sure if the saints will forgive him if he destroys Ricky, too.

**the beginning (draft three, more or less)**

Let’s start at the beginning. The beginning of the person EJ becomes in order to survive. The beginning of the end.

EJ discovers poetry when he is 14. He conveniently discovers, at the exact same time, that he likes boys. The two things might be connected. Okay, the two things _are_ connected. 

The Short Story is that there’s a fancy dinner, a businessman’s son, a book of poems by Pablo Neruda, and a kiss.

The Long Story is that there’s a fancy dinner, a businessman’s son, a book of poems by Pablo Neruda, a kiss, and a lot of blood. The blood is EJ’s. The kiss is also his, mostly. His father can’t take that away from him as much as he wants to try.

After that, EJ’s not quite the same. He cleans up on the outside, polishes the smile and the handshake. He answers to _Caswell_ and _Ethan_ instead of EJ (childhood nicknames are for children, after all). He takes interest in ‘the business side of things.’ He becomes a prefect. He gives perfume to his mother and cufflinks to his father at Christmas. He dates girls.

On the inside, though, he grows restless, feral, untamed. He answers to the names they call him in poetry, Achilles and Brutus and Iago. He takes interest in writing, becomes a poet and a thief, steals perfume and cufflinks to give to his parents at Christmas. He looks at boys, but he doesn’t date them. 

After Neruda (that’s what EJ calls him now because the weight of the boy’s actual name leaves a bad taste in his mouth), EJ’s different. He’s less himself, he’s more himself. He’s not happy, not really, but he thinks he can survive like this. And if surviving is the goal, he’ll learn to be okay with that.

**all poets are liars. and rich. and handsome. and boring.**

“So, that’s it?”

EJ looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. A lanky figure stands in front of him, their outline dark against the bright blue sky.

“Pardon?” EJ asks. The figure laughs because the figure is Ricky and Ricky knows that EJ is bullshitting.

“You heard me,” Ricky scoffs, throwing his bag down and sitting next to EJ on the grass. “What are you doing here?”

“Reading.”

Ricky bends his neck and peers down at the cover. Whatever he sees, he’s obviously not impressed by. He leans back against the tree they’re both shaded by, stretches out his legs, and yawns. “Our presentation is tomorrow. We might want to, you know, actually work on it.”

“The Professor reassigned me. I’m working with Richards now.” EJ keeps his eyes trained on the page and doesn’t look up at Ricky.

“Richards. As in David Richards, the banker’s son who can’t count without using his fingers?” Ricky deadpans.

“That’s the one.”

EJ sees Ricky nod slowly out of the corner of his eye. “Right. And he reassigned you, why?”

“Don’t know,” EJ answers carefully.

“I don’t like liars.”

“All poets are liars.”

“All poets are thieves.”

EJ smiles to himself. “Maybe I’m one of those too.”

“I hate you,” Ricky grumbles, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. EJ takes a glance at him, and Ricky opens one eye curiously. “Really, I do. I’m not kidding.”

“About hating me?” EJ asks.

“Yes. I’m probably going to get partnered with that squirrel-looking kid now. The one with the lisp,” Ricky points out. “And all because of _nothing._ A barely-kiss. A not-even-kiss. That makes you a barely, not-even queer, right?”

EJ closes his book. “I don’t really want to do this.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot that we always have to operate under _your_ terms. My apologies Prefect Caswell,” Ricky bites out the words. 

“Is there a _reason_ you’re here?” EJ feels a migraine coming on. He came out here to be alone and morose and poetic on a sunny hilltop. He didn’t come to be bullied.

“Well initially I came because we had a fucking poem to memorize, but then you sort of made that plan go up in flames,” Ricky huffs, tossing the red book of poems at EJ’s lap. “And _now_ , I’m in the unfortunate situation of finding out why you’re carrying on with this self-punishment complex of yours.”

“It’s not a _complex_ ,” EJ defends. “This is my fucking life.”

“Yes, of course, it’s your life and it’s horrible because you’re handsome and rich and unhappy—”

“And boring,” EJ interjects. “Don’t forget boring.”

Ricky smiles, incredulous, before continuing. “Yes, you’re very boring too. And life just treats you in a _particularly_ awful way because there’s never been a handsome, rich boy in the world who liked to kiss other boys. As far as I know, I think you might be the only one. It must be terribly lonely.”

He looks out at the hillside spreading before them, green grass fading, autumn leaves scattered around. “I’m tired of fighting for things I don’t get to keep,” EJ admits.

“I’m not a stamp-collection, for fucks sake,” Ricky says, throwing up his hands. “You don’t get to keep me. You’re not responsible for me. I’m a human being who can protect himself. That’s the problem, no? You’re afraid of me being hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s just very unfortunate then. I can’t be hurt. I’m invincible like the super-man, did you know that?” Ricky asks, pulling handfuls of grass up from the earth and tossing them into the breeze.

“Oh?”

“Yes, I have the bullet-proof skin and everything. So, you really don’t need to worry about me. Worry about yourself, maybe, you look positively _terrible_ ,” Ricky insists.

EJ laughs. It’s probably true. “We graduate in less than a year.”

Ricky hums. “And a very long year it will be if we don’t start right now.”

“Start what?” EJ turns his head so he’s facing Ricky. They’re both leaning against the tree, EJ with his hands between his bent legs, Ricky lounging like he owns the entire hillside.

Ricky glances around furtively. “Our very secret, very passionate tryst. I imagine we have a lot of dark alcoves and locked closets to canvas before we can get started.”

“Do I have any say in this?” EJ asks.

Ricky crinkles his nose. “I’m afraid not. You forfeited all right to opt-out when you confessed your love to me in that bathroom.”

“I didn’t _confess_ anything—”

Ricky closes his eyes and smiles. “I can remember it so clearly. _Ricky_ , you said, _I’ve been watching you in English and the way you rhyme couplets makes my loins_ —”

“I have _never_ said a single thing about your loins, thank-you-very-much—”

“—and of course, I demurred because I’m a _lady_. Really, your advances were quite forward and—”

“Are you done?” EJ asks.

Ricky squints one eye open again. “Should I be done?”

“Yes, I think so,” EJ says, and he kisses Ricky.

**the end (draft one)**

Let’s start at the end: an evening by the river with a red book of poems and a bottle of Dewar’s White Label and a boy with brown hair and his head in EJ’s lap— all of it impossible and absurd and stolen.

The book is The Professor’s, the bottle his father’s, and the boy his own.

They’re sitting on the bank of the river near Ricky’s house. It’s spring turning to summer, ladybugs on the leaves and clouds in the sky and flowers in Ricky’s hair. EJ spins a pen in his right hand, threads the fingers of his left through Ricky’s curls. The breeze sweeps through the willow tree above them, a quiet rustle. A bird sings somewhere in the breeze. EJ could die here, he thinks.

“Why’d you stop?” EJ asks when Ricky’s voice goes silent for a moment.

“Oh, I—” Ricky mumbles from behind the cover of the book. EJ can’t see his face, but he imagines his nose is scrunched up.

“Did you fall asleep?”

Ricky moves the book down an inch so EJ can barely see his eyes. “No.”

“You fell asleep,” EJ says, laughing high and bright.

“I absolutely did not,” Ricky insists, attempting to sit up.

EJ puts a hand on Ricky’s shoulder to keep him in place. “It’s okay. My lap is notoriously comfortable.”

“Your lap better be notorious for _nothing_. This is my lap. And it’s not my fault for falling asleep when you’re playing with my hair like that,” Ricky defends.

EJ waves a hand dismissively. “Fine, fine. Calm down, tiger. Keep reading.”

“I don’t want to,” Rick huffs. “I want to sleep.”

“We can sleep later. My roommates away for his Yale interview this weekend,” EJ offers.

Ricky gasps in mock-delight. “Are you inviting me to your _room?_ How very forward of you.”

EJ rolls his eyes and starts pushing Ricky out of his lap. “Fine, I’ll invite someone else. I’m sure that Daniels kid would _love_ a chance to see the Prefect’s room.”

Ricky swats EJ’s hand away and nestles deeper into his lap, his cheek smushes against EJ’s thigh. “Daniels is a wanna-be greaser. He carries around a switchblade, did you know that?”

“Don’t you carry a switchblade?”

Ricky sulks. “Yes, but I actually live in a neighborhood with things like _crime_ and _violence_. Daniels lives on an old cotton plantation. The only thing he needs to defend himself against there is the legacy of white colonialism.”

“I love when you talk academic to me,” EJ jokes, pushing the capped end of his pen into Ricky’s cheek. Ricky bares his teeth and tries to bite it. “Did you get a letter back from Harvard yet?”

“No,” Ricky answers, eyes closed. “Okay, yes. I did. It’s currently sitting unopened on my kitchen table.”

EJ tries to pick his words carefully. “Ricky—”

“I’ll open it tonight. I swear. Just—let’s just not worry about it for now, yeah?” He curls closer to EJ and brings one hand up play with the hem of EJ’s shirt. EJ doesn’t answer, just threads his fingers through Ricky’s hair again, tries to breathe along with the languid beat of his heart.

“Yeah, Ricky. That’s okay,” EJ answers. He doesn’t think about May graduation or the beginning of college this August. He doesn’t think about them separated by thousands of miles if Ricky doesn’t open that letter. He thinks about this moment, this warmth, Ricky’s cheek against his skin. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Ricky’s silent for a moment, and then his face breaks into a smile. He looks up at EJ, eyes wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like the crescent moon,” EJ says, tracing a semicircle on Ricky’s cheek.

“ _Upon this earth, in a timeless land_ ,” Ricky recites. His eyes are full of things that EJ has read in sonnets, rosebuds and adoration and lovers reunited after war. Ricky looks away, after a moment, and picks up the book from the grass. He begins reading.

_A moment of happiness,_

_you and I sitting on the verandah,_

_apparently two, but one in soul, you and I._

_We feel the flowing water of life here,_

_you and I, with the garden’s beauty_

_and the birds singing._

_The stars will be watching us,_

_and we will show them_

_what it is to be a thin crescent moon._

_You and I unselfed, will be together,_

_indifferent to idle speculation, you and I._

_The parrots of heaven will be cracking sugar_

_as we laugh together, you and I._

_In one form upon this earth,_

_and in another form in a timeless sweet land._


End file.
